


Drinking to Excess

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen, MFMM Year of Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:20:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Jack wakes up with a hangover. For the April Bodyswap Trope. If you squint.





	Drinking to Excess

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "Year of Tropes is absolutely not a competition in any way, shape, or form."
> 
> Also me: "Fuuuuuck, there's two days left in the year and there is only ONE trope I didn't write. This is going to drive me mad(der)." _*goes digging through archives and finds a months old drabble that fits the trope if you REALLY squint*_ "That'll do, pig, that'll do."

Jack was not in the habit of drinking to excess--aside from an incident when he was a teenager and time during the war which hardly counted, he knew his limits and generally stayed within them. And when he did not, it was a conscious decision.

All of which went a long way to explaining his confusion at waking in an unfamiliar bed with a raging hangover and no clue where most of his suit had gone to.

“Whoever told Phryne a welcome home and birthday party combined was a brilliant idea ought to be shot,” grumbled a familiar voice, and Jack raised his head to find Doctor MacMillan brushing her hair with a gingerness that suggested her own battle with the bottom of a bottle.

Yes, that sounded… familiar. Vaguely. And the bedroom he found himself in was not Wardlow, meaning…

“Is this your place?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to regret asking why we are here instead of somewhere with a butler who produces headache powders and freshly pressed suits?”

“Probably.”

“I won’t then,” Jack groaned; getting out of the bed was a Herculean task, but his dignity demanded it. It was slightly less embarrassing than the incident several months before, at least. “Is she here?”

“Miraculously, I heard her whistling as she headed out the door a few minutes ago. Something about not having enough milk for tea?”

Of course she had.

“Who else is here?”

“Nobody. I think. I vaguely recall dropping the others off at a hotel before we decided to come here for a nightcap. Phryne was quite insistent about it.”

Shaking his head, he peered around the room. “Where are my clothes?”

“I believe they are that slightly damp pile in my parlour,” Mac replied.

He was _not_ going to ask. If he asked, there might be answers.

“I don’t suppose Phryne mentioned picking me up new clothes while she was out then?”

“Afraid not. Your trousers are alright though, and I might have something that will fit you until you get home.”

And with that, Mac stood and opened her closet doors. Rifling through, she managed to produce a clean shirt--slightly tight in the arms--and a waistcoat and jacket that would suffice. Jack shrugged them on, his fingers groggy as he hurriedly fastened the buttons. Then she moved to a chest of drawers, opening the top one and drawing something out.

Jack looked at the proffered item in abject horror.

“No,” he said firmly. “I draw the line at cravats.”


End file.
